


With A Thousand Sweet Kisses

by blithelybonny



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Brief Non-Explicit Moments of Angst, Chirping, Coming Out, Dancing, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Scenes from a Relationship, being in love, mostly just kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11383497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: Ten times Kent kisses a boy.





	With A Thousand Sweet Kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mahons_ondine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahons_ondine/gifts).



> Happy bday KVP! And much love to my recipient, I hope you enjoy this small offering. <3
> 
> (Also, the comic belongs to Ngozi [thank you, you beautiful human for giving us these characters to play with], and the title is a lyric from Rent by Jonathan Larsen.)

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because it’s Pride and you’re just _ —fuck _ , you’re so goddamn tired of hiding. _

 

The parade is tomorrow, and there are a million people in this club, and Kent’s out on the dance floor bouncing up and down and screaming ‘Born This Way’ at the top of his lungs. He’s got glitter in his hair from when some guy ran his hands through it and tugged and black jeans so painted-on more than one person has raked their fingers along the strip of skin that’s showing between his waistband and his white tee-shirt but been unable to dip below that waistband without a struggle. It’s dark in here, but the lights are flashing rainbows into his skin, and Kent wishes _ — _ wonders what it would be like if he could just be like this always.

 

There’s also a boy who’s been steadily moving closer and closer since Kent spotted him across the floor twenty minutes ago.

 

Actually, it kinda goes like a scene from a movie: their eyes lock across the floor, they move inexorably closer to one other until Kent can wrap his arms around the little blond guy’s lower back, tugging him in close enough to hear over the thumping bassline. Up close it’s even more obvious that the guy recognizes him, but Kent also recognizes the guy right back, and whether it’s because it’s Pride or because he just doesn’t give a fuck anymore, Kent’s pretty sure that this boy—Aaron, maybe, Ryan, something, Bitwell?—doesn’t mean him any harm.

 

_ Or maybe _ , Kent thinks, taking in the flush in his cheeks and the curve of his ass in the tiniest pair of shorts Kent’s ever seen, _ he means you a whole hell of a lot of harm _ .

 

“Hiya,” he says, once he’s close enough, lips brushing Kent’s ear, and his hands are on Kent’s hips, tugging him into a dance that has serious potential.

 

“Hey,” Kent greets back, swallowing hard when he turns around and presses himself against the length of Kent with a sultry roll of his body. “Um, you-you’re, uh—?”

 

“Eric,” he interrupts.

 

And that’s it, Eric—Eric  _ Bittle _ , but the guys at Samwell all called him  _ Bitty _ , and Kent tries not to bristle that he isn’t allowed the nickname because he definitely fucking gets why.

 

“What are you doing in New York?” Kent asks right into Bittle’s ear so he can hear him.

 

Bittle presses back into his embrace and grinds his hips just right—just enough to make Kent stutter out a gasp, as he says, “Same as you, I reckon.”

 

“R-right, ye-yeah,” Kent stammers, flustered and exhilarated. 

 

They start really moving now, except Kent realizes actually that they’re barely moving at all. It’s just a casual grind of their hips in tandem, on beat, but in half-time. Bittle turns back around so that they’re chest to chest, and his hands come up and drape over Kent’s shoulders. His fingers start gently grazing through the damp curls at the back of Kent’s neck, and Kent grins, thinking that Bittle’s going to have glittery fingers now.

 

“What’re ya smilin’ for, Parson?” Bittle chirps, but he smiles and his fingers tighten in Kent’s hair.

 

Kent gasps and leans in closer. Bittle tilts up his face and god,  _ god _ Kent just wants. He wants so badly and he’s so fucking tired of wanting, but not having, and so he leans in even closer so that their lips are brushing, and he whispers, “Eric.”

 

“Yeah,” Bittle whispers back—kisses it into Kent’s mouth.

 

It’s confident, but lazy, which is weird for how fucking enormous it is for Kent to be openly, unapologetically kissing a boy in the middle of a club in New York City.

 

But then, Bittle’s got a teasing tongue—it dips between Kent’s lips and touches lightly at Kent’s own but slides back and away before Kent can chase it.

 

Kent breathes out, heavy and exerted, like he just skated a hard 45-second shift, and his eyes flutter open to meet Bittle’s warm brown ones. He grins, almost giddy, disbelieving that he’s here and that he’s—fuck, he’s kissing a boy in front of whoever the hell’s looking.

 

“What’re ya smilin’ for, Mr. Parson?” Bittle asks, warmer and less chirpy than before.

 

Kent just laughs and leans in again. There’s no more tension in his shoulders; he feels loose-limbed and light-headed with the feeling of freedom. He doesn’t feel a panicked urge to look over his shoulder or search for hidden cell phone cameras. He just leans in again—and again and  _ again. _

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because you’re flustered that you saw him after fully expecting never to run into him again. _

 

Bittle’s eyebrow is raised and the purse of his lips might be chirpy or it might be seriously judgmental—Kent isn’t sure because he’s too busy screaming internally.

 

He physically couldn’t keep his hand from reaching for Bittle’s hip, couldn’t keep from leaning in, couldn’t keep his lips from pressing lightly against the soft, smooth skin of Bittle’s cheek. Because he remembers what it felt like to have Bittle in his arms, pressed against him like they might as well have been one person; he remembers what it felt like to kiss those perfect soft eager lips; he remembers what it felt like to be open and out and free, and he really misses that feeling. (Because there’s a difference between the Las Vegas Aces organization knowing he’s gay and being actually, totally out of the closet.)

 

But what the actual fuck—Bittle never said anything about taking a job in Vegas. To be fair, Bittle didn’t actually say much of anything after they’d made out in that club like a couple of teenagers, and Kent had almost been convinced that it hadn’t actually happened at all, except for the hickey Bittle had left on Kent’s jawline before they’d parted ways. Still, Kent had had zero expectations about Bittle, so he was understandably a little caught off guard.

 

But, like also, the kiss hello was a total panic move...

 

“Uh.” Kent gulps, tries to say literally anything else, and fails.

 

Bittle doesn’t give an inch.

 

“Hey, so you’re the new Twitter guy—uh, heya Parser—”

 

Kent presses the same kiss to Swoops’s cheek and grins, though his eyes are still wide and panicked and it’s probably more of a grimace than anything. Mostly he just hopes that Troy’s going to get what he’s doing and play along. Because Troy gets Kent—can read Kent in the way that not too many other guys can—and he’s a really good friend, and sure, he’ll chirp Kent into oblivion later, but it’s always out of love.

 

“Oh,” Bittle says, lips curving into a bit of a knowing smile. “So this is like an Aces thing, huh?”

 

Swoops looks back and forth between Kent and Bittle for a second, rolls his eyes at Kent and then, because he really is the best friend a huge dork like Kent could ever ask for, he leans in and pecks a kiss on Bittle’s cheek as well. “We’re very European around here,” he says dryly, as he pulls away.

 

Kent lets out a sound that’s a cross between relieved laughter and pained embarrassment that makes Swoops throw an arm around his neck and tug him in for a bro-hug. Bittle just smirks some more, and Kent knows he’s totally fucking caught.

 

“So what was your name again, bro?” Swoops asks, when it becomes clear that Kent’s mouth is no longer connected to his brain.

 

Bittle’s smirk melts into something much more friendly and less like he’s staring at a piece of prey ready for the pouncing. He holds out his hand in greeting and says, “Eric Bittle, your new Social Media Manager.”

 

“That’s rad,” Kent says, and then immediately blushes bright red, groans, and drops his chin to his chest in defeat.

 

“ _ Rad _ ?” Bittle repeats, at the exact same time that Troy manages a “Fuckin’  _ righteous _ , dude!” between guffaws of laughter.

 

Which, honestly, fuck you, Swoops, it wasn’t even that ridiculous.

 

“I hate you both,” Kent says petulantly, which makes Bittle smile knowingly again and makes Swoops roll his eyes as his laughter dies down.

 

“You can’t hate me, else you’d have no friends, and you don’t even know Bittle enough to hate him.”

 

“Not even true—” Kent cuts himself off, but the damage is already done.

 

“Oh, so you two do know each other?” Swoops asks, like he already knows the answer.

 

Bittle’s gaze drops ever-so-subtly down to Kent’s lips, so quick Kent would hope that Swoops didn’t even notice, except that Swoops has always been hyper-observant when it comes to any potential hint of romance in Kent’s life, and he says, “Mr. Parson and I are...acquainted.”

 

Which totally makes it sound like they  _ banged _ , which they totally did  _ not _ ( _ yet _ , some stupidly inappropriate and treacherous part of Kent’s mind says), and ugh, Swoops is literally never, ever going to let this go because he’s a damn dog with a bone.

 

Swoops grins at Bittle before squeezing Kent’s shoulder and saying, very pointedly, “That’s rad.”

 

In spite of himself, Kent smiles even as he blushes because Bittle’s laughter, while obviously directed at him, is as warm as his really nice brown eyes.

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because you’re both frustrated, and it seems like it’s the only way the dam is going to burst. _

 

Kent’s really fucking annoyed, and it keeps coming out in snipey little comments that are clearly poking at Bittle’s soft spots, if the way he keeps turning up his nose and saying “bless your heart” in that syrupy fake way is any indication.

 

But Kent can’t help himself. It feels like they’ve been dancing around each other for weeks now, and Kent just—fuck, he  _ wants _ Bittle, like wants him  _ for real _ , and he’s like eighty-two percent sure that Bittle wants him back, but, like, this whole fucking thing could very easily blow spectacularly to pieces if he isn’t careful.

 

(A small voice in his head tells him that he’s kind of already doing it, if he can’t stop needling Bittle.)

 

But like, they just lost what should have been a really fucking easy game against the Canes, and Kent was really dumb and punished himself by reading through all the stupid, chirpy hockey twitter shit between Bittle and whoever runs Carolina’s twitter, and he’s really fucking annoyed that Bittle was out there being so confident and they just fucking ruined it for Bittle, and now Bittle’s gotta put himself out there and deal with all the crap that’s about to come his way, and he didn’t even fucking do anything wrong and just—

 

“ _ Kent Parson! _ ”

 

Kent looks up from his phone, and there’s Bittle looking aggravated and flushed and, well, kinda beautiful honestly, and fucking  _ shit  _ Kent is so goddamn  _ annoyed _ — “What?” he asks, all totally unearned petulance.

 

“You know very well  _ what _ , mister, now delete that tweet or I’m suspending your account,” Bittle threatens.

 

Kent rolls his eyes. “You can’t suspend my personal twitter, Bittle.”

 

“Oh, can’t I?” Bittle takes a few steps closer. His hands on are on his hips, and since Kent’s sitting on the bench, he’s towering over Kent a little, and it’s embarrassingly hot, honestly. “Delete the tweet, Kent.”

 

“No,” Kent replies, and very, very pointedly casts his eyes down from Bittle’s eyes to his lips and back up again.

 

Bittle’s nostrils flare, and his eyes flash, and he looms over Kent a little more, and says, “Delete. That. Tweet,” enunciating more clearly than Kent’s ever heard him, with his painfully cute dropped g’s and y’alls.

 

“No,” Kent whispers this time, quirking his eyebrows and then narrowing his eyes—daring.

 

Bittle grabs him by the laces of his sweater—because  _ fuck _ , Kent’s such a damn masochist, he still hasn’t changed out of his gear after the game, and he probably smells like shit and regret, but who fucking cares because Bittle’s  _ hands are on him _ —and hauls him up with not-so-surprising strength, and Kent gets his hands on Bittle’s hips, tugs their bodies against each other and practically crashes their lips together.

 

The kiss has all the urgency and fervor that Kent had been expecting their first time, that night in the club, and it’s raw and perfect, and Kent knows he’s in trouble, but he totally doesn’t care because if this is the punishment, he’ll just keep on transgressing for as long as he can.

 

Bittle’s clever and quick tongue practically dances against Kent’s own, their breath mingling harsh and sharp between them. Kent lets out a moan that he might, at some other point in his life, been embarrassed about, but can’t even find the bandwidth to care about right now. Because Bittle is—he’s just so— _ perfect _ . He kisses Kent like he needs it to survive, and Kent surrenders to it, lets it wash over him in waves. He could drown in this moment, and it would be a damn pleasure.

 

His hands find their way up Bittle’s back at some point, up into Bittle’s hair and then around to his jaw. They ease into something a little gentler, a little more slow and sweet, until Bittle pulls back just enough to breathe out a “ _ Lord almighty _ ” with an almost dopey look on his face that makes Kent’s entire body zing with pleasure.

 

“Bits,” Kent whispers, brushing his thumbs along Bittle’s cheekbones.

 

“Yeah,” Bits sighs out. “Yes.” 

 

And then they don’t say anything at all for a long time after that—at least until Bits pulls back, with his nose wrinkled up and says, “Oh  _ lord _ , honey, you need to take a shower.”

 

It takes every ounce of Kent’s willpower not to ask Bits to join him.

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy absent-mindedly because he feels like he’s a part of you already. _

 

Bits hands Kent a cup and seamlessly joins the small circle of Kent, Swoops, and Swoops’s girlfriend, Kat.

 

“Thanks, babe,” Kent says, and drops a hand on Bits’s hip and a soft, swift kiss to Bits’s temple, before he gestures to Swoops with his new cup and continues, “But that’s the thing about the Schooners defense, bro, it’s just—what, uh, do I have something on my face?”

 

Because Swoops’s face has gone simultaneously smug and excited, which is like a very weird combination and definitely not a good look. Kat, meanwhile, is grinning, her eyes darting back and forth between Kent and Bits, and—oh.

 

“Um,” Kent says, and tips his chin down to look at Bits, who looks back up at him with an unreadable expression on his face. But then, Bits rolls his eyes fondly, picks up Kent’s free hand and places it back on his hip. “Yeah,” Kent adds, smiling at Bits, “uh, so, we’re kinda, um, dating?”

 

Swoops, because he is a huge fucking dork, breaks into his celly dance, and Kat laughs and smacks his arm to get him to stop. “Dude,” she says, “where’s your chill?”

 

“Def lost it when Parser decided to stop being a chicken for five seconds and admit he’s got the big love for Bitsy,” Swoops replies, before he reaches out and slings an arm around Bits’s shoulders. “This might actually be the best day of my life.”

 

“Really, Mr. Troy,  _ this _ is the best day of your life?” Bits chirps, because he is savage and perfect, and while it’s like a million years too soon to be talking about the big love, Kent’s always been the kind of guy who falls hard and fast, and yeah, someday in the not so distant future, he’s pretty sure that Swoops is going to be right.

 

For now, Kent is pretty content with the fact that he likes Bits a whole damn lot, and Bits likes him back, and he can maybe tell some of the guys outside of Swoops and Kat that he’s got like a real life  _ boyfriend _ , which is honestly not something Kent ever really anticipated. Or, well, he sort of always saw it in very abstract terms: like one day, in the future, like maybe after hockey was done with him, he’d find someone, settle down, do the marriage and kids thing, and like that would be that.

 

But honestly, this is really fucking nice though. Bits is real and present and shit, he fucking likes Kent, and how does Kent even deserve this? How does Kent deserve this handsome, smart, funny, talented, sweet—

 

Kent squeezes Bits’s hip, and Bits tilts his head just enough, and Kent says, quietly, “Hey, I like you.”

 

Bits flushes a little bit and bites his lip, but his eyes are steady on Kent’s when he replies, “I like you too, Kent Parson.”

 

Kent’s pretty sure he feels that in his soul.

 

And later on, when the party’s largely cleared out, except for a couple rookies who are crashed out in Kent’s guestroom, Kent pulls Bits into his lap and strokes his hands up and down Bits’s sides, enjoying the way that he squirms just a little when Kent’s touch ghosts a little too much. “I’m sorry, by the way,” he murmurs.

 

“What’re ya sorry for?” Bits asks, genuine confusion twisting up his features and making him look so fucking cute that Kent almost doesn’t have an answer for him.

 

“For uh, you know, with Swoops and Kat...like I’m sorry if you weren’t, um, ready for them to know or whatever.”

 

The confusion falls away and Bits just looks soft and maybe a little sad. “Kenny”—and it’s weird hearing that name from those lips, but it also doesn’t hurt the way it used to, not even a little bit—“don’t you dare be sorry for that.” His hands then slide up around the back of Kent’s neck and into his hair.

 

Kent closes his eyes with a soft little hum and says, “Okay, babe, then I’m not sorry.”

 

“Good,” Bits whispers against Kent’s lips.

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because you’re among family and you trust them. _

 

It’s family skate and Bits’s taking pictures on his phone for the Aces Instagram, and he’s wearing a Parson sweater, and Kent really,  _ really _ wants to kiss him.

 

He just looks so damn kissable all the time, and now that Kent’s allowed to basically kiss Bits whenever they both want to, it’s kinda hard for him to stop his hands from reaching out to cup Bits’s face and tug him close and slot their lips together like they were born to do it.

 

“I feel like I should fine you, man,” comes Derry’s voice from Kent’s left. The goalie’s got his chin perched on his stick, and he’s cheesing at Kent like he just shut out the Penguins.

 

“I don’t, uh, what,” is Kent’s ever-so-eloquent reply.

 

“You’re kinda like the posterboy for ‘hearteyes motherfucker’ right now, bro,” Derry continues, and reaches with his free hand to bop Kent’s chin.

 

And the thing is, yeah, it probably is written all over Kent’s face, and he should probably really try to tone it down a little because sure, a couple of the fellas know about him and Bits, but not all of them do, and Kent’s not super sure if Bits’s ready for that kind of exposure just yet. Bits hasn’t had the luxury of getting to know the Las Vegas Aces over several long seasons and two Stanleys—it’s only been a few months (although, he’s so fucking amazing, the team has taken to him like ducks to water, which kinda makes the time frame thing a moot point).

 

“Can’t help it, I guess,” Kent says, and feels his face pulling into a soft grin when he gets eyes on Bits again.

 

Bits glances over, catches Kent staring, and because he’s a little shit,  _ licks his lips _ like he knows just fucking exactly what Kent’s thinking, and seriously, Kent wants to kiss him so fucking badly.

 

“Oh  _ man _ , I wanna fine your ass so hard, bro,” Derry laughs, as Bits starts to skate over. “For you and for him, both.”

 

“Shut up, Derry,” Kent murmurs. It’d probably be okay if he just super casually, very quickly, pressed just one little kiss into Bits’s skin. It could be his cheek, even, or maybe the top of his head? If it’s quick enough, maybe no one will even notice? There’s so much shit going on in the arena, families all over the place, surely he can get away with like one—

 

“HEARTEYES SON!” Derry yells, interrupting Kent’s scheming, just as Bits reaches them.

 

Kent’s eyes widen and he whirls on his formerly favorite goalie in the entire league, but Derry’s already skating away. He turns back to see Bits smirking fondly at him. “You are a menace, Kent Parson,” he chirps.

 

“Me?” Kent replies, indignant. “I’m not the one yelling—”

 

“You,” Bits interrupts, and skates a little closer.

 

“Why?” Kent asks, but he fucking knows why, and he can’t help but grin.

 

Bits shakes his head, smiling, and then says, “Well come on out here and skate with me since I’m actually  _ working _ while y’all get to skate around having the time of your lives.”

 

Kent glances out over the ice at all the guys with their families: Derry’s now got Jeff’s kids hanging onto either end of his stick as he pulls them around, while Jeff and his wife hold hands and skate behind; Swoops, Kat, and his mom are playing a very loose game of three-on-three against his dad and his two younger brothers; and Hemmer and his wife are pulling their kid around on a little sled. It’s all domestic as fuck, and—and Kent really fucking wants to kiss Bits. “I, uh, you know, I usually kinda let all the guys with their families—you know, so they can, uh—”

 

Bits holds out his hand for Kent to take and says, “C’mon, honeybee.”

 

The endearment lights Kent up from the inside out. Because Bits’s sweet and Southern as fuck, and Kent’s heard him call everyone and their mama some lovely little thing like ‘sugar’ or ‘hun’ or ‘sweetheart,’ but this one is  _ just his _ , and fucking hell, Kent’s gonna kiss him.

 

He takes Bits’s hand but tugs him forward into his arms, and he swallows Bits’s surprised little  _ oh! _ with the press of his lips. He feels Bits melt into it, a satisfied little hum that Kent swallows too. He tastes like the sharp, icy air of the arena, and it’s cold and beautiful, and Kent kind of wants to keep doing this forever.

 

And when he realizes that instead of a terrifying ringing silence or angry murmuring, all he hears are catcalls and wolf whistles and Derry shouting about fines, he pulls back, laughing brightly, hands still cupping Bits’s face, and thinks about how lucky he is.

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because you’re hoping it’ll lead to more. _

 

The Aces are a hair’s breadth away from clinching a playoff berth, and Kent is feeling super keyed up with a mix of apprehension and adrenaline. They can do it, obviously, they’ve done it in the past, but there’s also still a lot of hockey left to play and anything can happen in the next few games.

 

So he’s watching tape, jostling his knee up and down, and probably annoying the fuck out of Bits, who’s next to him on the couch scrolling through his own social media..

 

“Lord, Ocasek’s obvious when he’s going for a slapper.”

 

“What?” Kent startles, and flicks back to the tv—except Ocasek is a Duck, and Kent’s ostensibly watching a Kings game, which Bits very well knows, and okay so maybe Kent’s not really watching tape because he’s too busy watching Bits. “Har fucking har, babe.”

 

“I thought it was funny,” Bits replies, then sets his phone aside and turns to face Kent. “You sure got a lot of energy, Mr. Parson.”

 

There’s something Kent has learned to recognize in Bits’s tone when he’s, well, feeling it too, and he hears it now. It’s a little bit sly, a little bit suggestive, but with enough aloofness that there’s something to chase. Bits really, really likes to be chased, it turns out, and Kent? Kent’s a pretty fucking good runner.

 

“Yeah,” Kent replies, glancing at Bits sidelong. “Wish I had an outlet right now.”

 

“Mmm,” Bits affirms, and not so very subtly at all, actually, slides a little closer on the couch. “You got any ideas, hun?”

 

Kent slides a hand over to rest on Bits’s thigh, high up enough to make a definitive statement. “I could think of a few things, maybe,” he replies.

 

Bits gives him a molasses-slow grin before he shifts over and straddles Kent’s lap. Kent’s hands come up immediately to grip his ass, almost holding him there in place, and Bits cups Kent’s cheeks with his hands. They smell a little like the blueberry jam he made earlier, so Kent turns his head in Bits’s grip and presses a kiss to his palm before, in a totally and completely smooth way, licking it.

 

“You are a beast!” Bits cries out, laughing brightly, and grinding inadvertently against Kent’s lap.

 

“Yours though,” Kent replies.

 

Bits’s eyes darken a little, as he moves his hips with a bit more intent this time. “That’s right, baby. Mine,” he replies.

 

It always thrills Kent a little, hearing that. It’s new, but it’s not scary—it just feels like progress, and Kent’s here for it. “Yeah,” he breathes, tilting up his chin in Bits’s grip. He captures Bits’s lips in a searing kiss, and Bits just opens up for him, sinking further into his lap, rolling his hips, and making little noises that Kent is fairly certain he’d pay any amount in the world to be able to hear forever.

 

“And I’m yours too,” Bits mutters against his lips between kisses. “You know that, right? You know I’m yours too?”

 

Kent nods furiously, unwilling and unable to break the contact between them for long enough to speak. Bits is just—his hands are roaming, his hips are grinding, his lips are sweet and stinging against Kent’s, and he’s  _ Kent’s _ , and  _ Kent is his _ , and Kent—

 

“Come on, Kenny,” Bits says quietly, before he presses one tiny kiss to the tip of Kent’s nose. “Take me to bed.”

 

Shivering lightly with adrenaline, Kent stands up, laughing a little as Bits gives a little squeak and hurriedly wraps his legs around Kent’s waist, and then beats it for their bedroom—because it’s theirs, and they are each other’s. 

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because _ —holy shit,  _ you  _ love _ him. _

 

The NHL playoffs are always a slog; even when they’re easy, they’re hard because sometimes teams that just barely made it in manage a strong second wind and sometimes teams that breezed into a clinch lose the magic. The Aces are doing okay, but it’s definitely work, and Kent’s so fucking tired after every single game that he’s honestly starting to think seriously about what comes after hockey. He’s starting to really visualize what his life would look like without getting dressed and flying around the ice nine months out of the year.

 

“You could coach,” Bits says, as he slides his fingers through Kent’s hair. They’re lounging naked in bed before game four of the conference finals, Kent resting his head on Bits’s chest and feeling content and satisfied. “I could definitely see you coaching, hun.”

 

“Yeah maybe,” Kent replies, humming a little as Bits scratches his blunt nails gently over his scalp. “Or maybe they’d let me commentate. I’d be fucking awesome on ESPN.”

 

“Naw,” Bits says, “but maybe the NHL Network,” because he’s a chirpy little thing, and Kent fucking loves him.

 

Fuck.

 

Kent  _ loves _ him.

 

Whatever future Kent has beyond hockey, whether it’s coaching or commentating or, who knows, going back to school to become an accountant or something—whatever it is, never once has Kent considered it without Bits at his side. Bits is there in the morning when they wake up together in their giant-ass bed all tangled in the sheets and each other’s limbs (because Bits is totally a sleep-cuddler...and an awake-cuddler honestly), and they both get home from work, and Bits is in the kitchen, making dinner and baking pies while Kent sneaks blueberries and generally gets underfoot until Bits shoos him away. Bits is there three, five, ten, fifty years down the road, and how the actual fuck did Kent, who’s always fallen hard and fast and obvious, not really notice that he’s head over feet, stupid,  _ stupid _ in love with Eric Bittle?

 

And sure, maybe he was a little afraid because love in the past had been difficult for Kent. Maybe it’d been hard and confusing and maybe he’d messed it up and handled it badly (but it’s okay now, they’re okay, they weren’t right for each other, and they get that, and they’re both so much happier now, and it’s really, well and truly, honestly fine), and maybe that’s why Kent hadn’t noticed.

 

But god, it’s so fucking obvious. It’s so, so, ridiculously, incredibly fucking  _ obvious _ . Kent’s almost embarrassed, really, because it’s so clear.

 

“Where’d you go, honeybee?” Bits asks, lightly tapping the pads of his fingers against Kent’s temples and pulling Kent from his disbelief at his own ridiculousness.

 

“Hey, I love you,” Kent blurts out, and tries to ignore the way his heart has simultaneously leaped into his throat and plummeted into his stomach.

 

Bits looks down at him with a soft smile and says, “I love you too,” easy as anything. Like—like Kent’s kind of a dope for not realizing, like it was obvious all along that Bits felt the same. And maybe—shit, maybe it  _ was _ . God, Kent is so  _ annoyed _ with himself for not saying it sooner—for not taking every waking moment of time that was available to them and just showering Bits with all the love he deserves.

 

“I love you,” Kent repeats, easier now, lighter and happier and filled the fuck up with it. “Bits, I—fuck, baby, I—I love you so fucking much.”

 

“Oh sweetie, I love you,” Bits replies, laughing, smirking a little even.

 

Kent leans up on his elbows, pushes his face up to meet Bits’s even from their weird upside-down angle, and kisses that beautiful, infuriating, perfect smirk until it’s nothing but a satisfied smile.

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because you tried your best, but it wasn’t quite good enough this time. _

 

The Aces lose the Stanley—and it’s okay.

 

Well, no, it fucking sucks, actually, especially because they’re at home, and even though it’s impossible, Kent’s still pretty sure he can hear the Preds celebrating and filling the visiting locker room with champagne. He’s showering, or, well, he’s kinda just standing there under the spray, face up to the water and eyes closed, processing as best he can. 

 

As much as this season had felt a little bit like running a marathon with a sprained ankle, they had still worked so hard. They'd fought and scraped and duked it out, watching the other teams fall in their wake and really earning their spot in the finals. Pushing and scraping hadn't felt so hard though; it had felt—it had felt so worth it.

 

And Kent is absolutely sure he knows the reason for that.

 

And maybe it's a little like magic when the curtain opens and Bits steps up behind him, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his cheek into Kent’s back because Kent knows that it really is  _ okay _ that they lost the Cup this year.

 

“You okay, Kenny?” Bits asks, barely audible over the sound of the showers. Derry’s still in here, Kent thinks, and makes a note to hug his goalie extra tightly later.

 

“Yeah, babe,” Kent replies, and slowly turns around in the circle of Bits’s arms to wrap him up as well. “I mean, fuck the Preds or whatever.”

 

Bits chuckles, and Kent smiles at him. “Y’all were amazing out there, you know. I’m real proud of you.”

 

Kent nods and swallows hard against a sudden lump in his throat. Because it really would have been nice to share a Cup Day with the man he loves.

 

“Oh sweetheart,” Bits says, and slides his hands up so that they’re cupping Kent’s cheeks. “You did so well.”

 

Kent breathes out shakily, closes his eyes, and says, “It just wasn’t our year.”

 

“You’re okay, hun,” Bits says, brushing his thumbs over Kent’s cheekbones. “You’re okay.”

 

“I know. I know, babe. Bits, I—” Kent takes a couple steps forward, moving them a little bit out from under the spray, and continues, “I love you.”

 

“I love you too, hun...now how about we get out of this shower before you get all pruned up?”

 

Kent doesn't open his eyes and doesn't move to leave the shower either. “How about another minute or so?” he murmurs, as he wraps his arms a little tighter around Bits and slots their legs together. Bits tucks his head under Kent's chin, nestling in close. It's warm and it's nice and it's comfortable, and it doesn't even feel like he wants to push for anything more than just the feel of Bits against him, holding him, promising that it really is okay.

 

He shifts a little, presses a kiss to the top of Bits’s head and then feels a soft answering kiss on his neck. Kent sighs and just lets himself breathe. 

 

Because it is going to be okay. There's always next season.

 

“Exactly, hun,” Bits answers.

 

Kent huffs out a laugh when he realizes he said that out loud. “And you’ll be there?” 

 

“‘Course, Kenny. As if you could keep me away,” Bits answers.

 

So yeah—next season for sure.

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because you love him so much, you want everyone to know it. _

 

“If you don't stop fiddlin’ with that tie, Mr. Parson—” Bits doesn't actually finish his threat, probably because Kent looks so pathetic, and he turns in his seat a little and fixes Kent’s tie for him. “You are a grown man, remember,” he adds, but his tone is fond.

 

“I know, I know,” Kent replies, “I'm just nervous.”

 

“What for?” asks Swoops on his other side. “You’re gonna win, Cap.”

 

“He's definitely gonna win,” Bits leans across Kent’s chest to assure Swoops.

 

“Then what are you nervous for, bro?”

 

He’s nervous because he’s coming out. He’s going to walk up on that stage in front of his peers and all the fans at home watching the awards ceremony, and he’s going to tell them that he’s gay.

 

Kent’s wanted it for a long time—in fact, he’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything more than to be allowed to be his whole, actual, entire self. He’s exhausted with hiding and compartmentalizing and pretending that who he loves makes any sort of difference in the kind of hockey he plays. He just wants to have the kind of freedom that other people have.

 

And maybe? Well, maybe there’s also a part of him that wants to make it better for the guys at his side and the guys coming up after him and the kids in the junior leagues and the high school leagues and the kiddie leagues who don’t have anyone on their side. Kent’s never thought himself much of a role model, but if he can make it better for even one more guy out there, well—Kent’s going to take that opportunity and he’s going to run with it.

 

(Honestly, one more Stanley under his belt might have helped a little, but Kent’s beaten his own records countless times before, and the whole point is that it really  _ shouldn’t fucking matter _ .)

 

“Uh,” he then says, flicking a glance Swoops’s way, “you’ll see? If, uh, if I win.”

 

“ _ When _ you win,” Bits immediately corrects, and runs his hand casually up to squeeze Kent’s knee for comfort.

 

Bits had helped Kent with his speech. It’s short, concise, pretty fucking eloquent actually, but more than that, it’s honest. And Kent is at least pretty sure he’s going to get to deliver it. It’s impossible to be sure, obviously, but he’s pretty confident. Bits is obviously confident enough for the both of them, and it’s—well, it never really ceases to amaze Kent just how amazing it feels to have someone in his life like Bits, someone who buoys him up when he needs saving, someone who holds him close and makes him feel safe, someone who goes to bat for him, someone who supports him, someone who—someone who loves him like he’s never been loved before.

 

It overwhelms Kent sometimes: he’ll wake up in the morning and Bits will be draped over his chest in bed looking peaceful in sleep, and Kent will think to himself, dear fucking god, this is mine to protect and to keep and to love and to hold. He’ll think, what if I fuck it up? He’ll think, what if I ruin this?

 

He’ll be seated across the table from Bits at a team dinner, and Bits will be animatedly chatting with the guys, and Kent will think, seriously how did I manage to find him? He’ll think, how is this my life? He’ll think, how am I ever going to be enough for him?

 

He’ll be sprawled on the bed, and Bits will be steadily kissing his way down Kent’s chest, and Kent will think, how can I ever repay him for everything he’s given me?

 

But then Bits will look at him, and he’ll smile, and he’ll say,  _ You’re mine, you know _ . And the doubts will disappear.

 

He’s feeling it now. Kent’s feeling it now, that swooping sense of feeling at home, safe, and in love. He turns to look at Bits, and Bits gives him a chirpy little eye roll and that smirk that Kent loves so much, and he reaches out a last time to fix Kent’s tie, and Kent—he knows what he’s going to do.

 

They call his name, and Swoops leads a hollering cheer, and Bits squeezes his knee, and Kent—

 

Kent grabs Bits by the cheeks and kisses him good and hard—with his eyes closed against the flutter of nerves and unmindful of anything except the beat of his own heart and the love he feels for this person who found his way into Kent’s life and just made it so much fucking better than it had ever been before.

 

When he pulls back after a second or two, he meets Bits’s gaze, and Bits smiles softly at him and whispers, “Go get’em, honeybee.”

 

Everything he’d planned to say goes out the window when he walks up on that stage to collect his award. And in the end, all Kent remembers of it when he and Bits get home later that night is the last bit: he’d laughed, held up his trophy and said, “Oh yeah, and I’m super fucking gay.”

 

 

_ Sometimes you kiss a boy because it’s Pride and you’re just _ —fuck _ you’re so goddamn happy you don’t have to hide anymore. _

 

The parade is tomorrow, and there are a million people in this club, and Kent’s out on the dance floor bouncing up and down and screaming ‘Born This Way’ at the top of his lungs. He’s got glitter in his hair from when Bits ran his hands through it and tugged and black jeans so painted-on Bits keeps whining in his ear because the strip of skin that’s showing between his waistband and his white tee-shirt is accessible but he can’t get his fingers below that waistband without a struggle. It’s dark in here, but the lights are flashing rainbows into his skin, and Kent  _ knows  _ what it would be like if he could just be like this always.

 

There’s also a boy who’s been steadily moving closer and closer since Kent spotted him across the floor a year ago.

 

Actually, it kinda goes like a scene from a movie: their eyes lock and everything else in the club fades away. Kent has his arms wrapped around Bits’s lower back, tugging him close enough to hear over the thumping bassline. Up close it’s even more obvious that they only have eyes for each other, with the way they sway to the beat of music they’re clearly only hearing in their own heads. And whether  because it’s Pride or because Kent doesn’t give a fuck anymore, he’s pretty sure that Bits doesn’t mean him any harm.

 

_ Maybe _ , Kent thinks, taking in the flush in Bits’s cheeks and the curve of his ass in Kent’s favorite pair of those perfect little shorts, _ he’s never meant you any harm _ .

 

“Heya, honeybee,” Bits says, lips brushing Kent’s ear, and his hands are on Kent’s hips, stroking ‘I love you’s into the bare skin.

 

“Hi,” Kent greets back, grinning like the cat that got the canary when Bits just laughs at him and turns around in the embrace. He’s still so good at that; he’s got the kind of moves that still drive Kent crazy in the very best way.

 

“You remember when you picked me up in this club?” Bits asks.

 

“When I picked  _ you _ up?” Kent scoffs, right into Bittle’s ear so he can hear him.

 

Bits presses back into his embrace and grinds his hips just right—just enough to make Kent stutter out a gasp, as he says, “Oh absolutely, I remember it clear as a bell.”

 

“R-right, ye-yeah,” Kent stammers, flustered and exhilarated and so, so in love. 

 

It’s such a familiar melody: the casual grind of their hips in tandem, on beat, but in half-time. Bits turns back around so that they’re chest to chest, and his hands come up and drape over Kent’s shoulders. His fingers start gently grazing through the damp curls at the back of Kent’s neck, and Kent grins, thinking that Bits is probably going to yell at him when they get home because the glitter is such a pain in the ass to get out of his hair.

 

“What’re ya smilin’ for, Mr. Parson?” Bits chirps, and he smiles and his fingers trail down Kent’s neck to trace another ‘I love you’.

 

Kent grins and leans in closer. Bits tilts up his face and god,  _ god _ Kent just wants. He wants so badly and he’s never going to be fucking tired of wanting this perfect, beautiful, amazing man who loves him in return, and so he leans in even closer so that their lips are brushing, and he whispers, “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” Bits whispers back—kisses it into Kent’s mouth.

 

It’s confident, but lazy, which is perfect for how normal it feels for Kent to be openly, unapologetically kissing a boy in the middle of a club in New York City.

 

But then, Bits still has a teasing tongue—it dips between Kent’s lips and touches lightly at Kent’s own. Kent chases it readily, letting them dance together to the rhythm of that song that just won’t stop playing.

 

Kent breathes out, heavy and exerted, like he just skated a hard 45-second shift, and his eyes flutter open to meet Bits’s. He grins, still giddy after a thousand kisses just like this one, happy and proud that he’s here and that he’s kissing a boy he loves.

 

“What’re ya smilin’ for, Kenny?” Bits asks, warmer and less chirpy than before.

 

Kent just laughs and leans in again—and again and  _ again. _


End file.
